


The Royal Spymaster

by intentandinvention



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternative Acquisition, Cecelia Is The Best, Gen, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Canon, Prompt Fill, Sass, Tax evasion, Tumblr Prompt, help the author's socialist leanings are invading their fic, main characters who even are they
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 11:39:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intentandinvention/pseuds/intentandinvention
Summary: They spend two hours leading Royal Spymaster Alderdice a merry chase about the accounts; they barely even have to lie, he swallows it all like mother’s milk. It would be almost depressing how easy it all is, if Ramsey weren’t making thousands from the markets he’s cornered.It’s not until the carriage pulls up back at the gates of his townhouse and he sees the Tower guardsmen still there that he realises he’s been played.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Look, the women of Dishonored give me life, and I got an anon prompt request on [tumblr](http://intentandinvention.tumblr.com) for Royal Spymaster Cecelia. Since I love Cecelia almost as much as I love prompt requests, this appeared within the day. 
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [amoeve](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amoeve/pseuds/amoeve), who at this point probably knows more about the Dishonored universe than most people who've actually played the game.

‘M’lord Ramsey, there’s a Tower guard at the door,’ the maid says nervously.

Ramsey looks at his breakfast plate, then at his wife. ‘How are the help not aware that we are not to be interrupted at breakfast, Caroline?’ he asks calmly.

His wife raises an eyebrow over her teacup, levels a glare at the girl. ‘Elenor, is it?’ she says.

‘Please, m’Lady, the Captain was most insistent,’ the girl quavers, bobbing a second curtsey. ‘Said the Royal Spymaster requested m’Lord’s presence at the Tower at once.’

Ramsey’s blood runs cold, and he lowers his knife and fork. He’s careful to smile, to stand slowly so there’ll be no report of concern to carry back. ‘Tell the Captain I’ll be with him momentarily,’ he says, and the girl ducks out of the room. He waits until the heavy door’s closed to push his chair out from the table. ‘Outsider’s bloody eyes, if only that blasted Kaldwin girl had been finished off alongside her ruddy mother!’ he growls as he finishes his tea.

‘Now, dear, I’m sure it’s nothing–’

‘It’s those ruddy grain shipments from Morley, that’s what it is!’ he snaps. ‘Those ridiculous customs charges and price caps of hers are destroying honest Dunwall trade!’ Although it’s the not-so-honest trade that concerns him, the... _alternatively_ _acquired_ shipments from Tyvia. That cap on the price of grain is circumvented easily enough in the right areas of the city as long as it doesn’t have to go through official channels, and it’s making him a fortune. Amazing how the pennies add up when every scavenging survivor is desperate to pay for bread. ‘It’s too many women in the Tower, that’s the problem! That Boyle woman and Adelle White and that blasted Curnow girl with her airs and graces!’

Caroline sniffs. ‘Thinks just because she spent a term at the Academy she can pretend she wasn’t born the wrong side of a gutter, that one.’

‘Exactly! No wonder the Council handles the street scum with kid gloves, half of _them_ were born in the blighted Distillery District!’ Not that the Curnow girl isn’t striking, even if her hair’s the colour of mud. Back before the Plague he’d have considered her maybe worth a tumble, but of course you can’t be too careful now. Anyone could have it. ‘And that bloody Attano’s not got the backbone to stand up to them!’ he adds. ‘There never was a serk with half the grit and steel of a real Gristol man.’ Caroline murmurs her agreement and affront.

The black-uniformed Captain waiting in the foyer, however, is a Gristol man with steel to spare who seems to care little for the discourtesy of interrupting Ramsey’s breakfast. Ramsey summons his chief foreman as instructed, and follows the officer to Spymaster Alderdice’s study in the Tower. There they spend two hours leading the Alderdice boy a merry chase about the accounts; they barely even have to lie, he swallows it all like mother’s milk. It would be almost depressing how easy it all is, if Ramsey weren’t making thousands from the markets he’s cornered.

It’s not until the carriage pulls up back at the gates of his townhouse and he sees the Tower guardsmen still there that he realises he’s been played. Furious, he storms inside, only to be stopped by a pair of guardsmen standing in his way, arms folded.

‘Sorry, Lord Ramsey; Spymaster’s orders, you’re not to be allowed in. An investigation is being conducted,’ one of them says.

‘Into what, Sergeant?’ Ramsey asks, careful to mix injured innocence with sternness. One can never be too careful with guardsmen since Attano resumed command at the Tower; the serk seems to view a slight to his men as a slight to _him_. ‘Spymaster Alderdice was quite happy to agree that our accounts are flawless. I will speak to your commanding officer at once.’

‘Of course, m’Lord.’

“At once” doesn’t happen for another half bell, during which Ramsey is at least escorted to his own sitting room – even if it is the small one where Caroline usually entertains her peers. They put a guardsman outside the door almost as if he’s some common criminal, and he sits and seethes and swears that he’s going to give the Alderdice boy a piece of his mind for this tomfoolery. Mind, there’s no way that moon-faced imbecile has the brains or the guts for it; this has to be someone else’s work, that self-righteous Commander Curnow or the Empress’s greasy shadow.

Finally the door opens, and a slip of a girl steps in and shuts it behind her, leaning against it. Ramsey doesn’t recall his wife hiring any redheaded charwomen, but he hardly keeps track any more – they’ve been fleeing like rats since the Plague started. Outsider’s eyes though, he needs to have a word with Caroline about this one. She’s dressed like a _man_ , all plain trousers and waistcoat, as if she’s set for a day of labouring rather than laundry! She must be new – most likely, the others have sent her to see if he needs anything whilst he waits, knowing full well he’ll not be in any mood to tolerate their lip. ‘What time did they get here, girl?’ he snaps from his chair.

She hesitates a moment, as if she’s not sure whether she’s supposed to say anything, but then she bobs a clumsy curtsey. He nods, somewhat mollified; at least she’s been taught to recognise her betters appropriately. ‘An hour ago, m'Lord,’ she says. ‘Begging your pardon, but they just rushed in and there weren’t nothing we could do.’

‘Have they searched the whole house yet?’

‘No, m’lord, just the study and the day room.’

Thank the Void. ‘Good! Good. Now, listen to me carefully. Don’t go babbling or you won’t be around long enough to regret it. Get back down to the kitchen and tell Daniels to hotfoot it to the library. There are two ledgers in the Tyvian politics section, near the window seat, with dark blue covers. He needs to get them out of the estate if he can; if he can’t, he’s to hide them somewhere these plodders won’t find them.’

The girl nods. ‘Dark blue covers, Tyvian politics, near the window seat?’ she repeats.

‘Outsider’s eyes, girl, do I have to write it down for you? No, what am I saying, it’s not as if you can read!’

To his shock, she doesn’t reply – she just opens the door, leans out and calls his instructions into the corridor. There’s muffled laughter, and the sound of someone walking off. The redheaded chit closes the door again, turns back and walks to the corner writing desk as Ramsey stares. She picks up _his_ golden anchor paperweight, tosses it from hand to hand as if it doesn’t cost more than she’d earn in a lifetime.

Finally Ramsey finds his voice. ‘The Royal Spymaster will hear how you behave around your betters, girl!’

She snorts, a coarse sound that he’d expect to hear in a common public house before his own home. ‘Indeed.’

A guardsman enters, and Ramsey’s chest tightens when he sees the ledgers in the man’s arms. The redhead smiles, lets him drop them on the writing desk, opens one and flicks through it. The smirk she throws Ramsey is sharp.

‘Oh, you’re going away for _years_ ,’ she says. ‘You’ve given me enough here to hang you ten times over.’

‘ _You_?’ he splutters. ‘Royal Spymaster Alderdice–’

She actually _winks_ , and the audacity of it is enough to silence him. ‘You know what they say, Ramsey: behind every powerful man is a woman doing all the work. Alderdice’s coat is pretty, but it’s not my style. Enjoy your stay in Coldridge.’


End file.
